


Om Du Möter Varg

by wardaddy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Circus, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardaddy/pseuds/wardaddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glance back at the train told him exactly what was coming.. Painted in grand, swirling gold letters, the words formed a frame for a picture of a scene Enjolras had not seen since childhood. Cirque de l’inconnu.</p>
<p>(A circus AU written by my friend R and I.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Om Du Möter Varg

It was rare that one could describe a sky as being brown and dismal. And yet the atmosphere was smoggy and filled with something akin to grease; heavy and hopeless, something that wasn’t quite tangible, but was felt and seen by many. Sidewalks that were once bustling, rowdy, and full of people and life were now empty, as though abandoned by the people that once travelled along them. Even the most populated cities were barren, left for dead- desolate ghost towns with nothing to show but a couple run down taverns and cobweb-infested halls. It’s not as though the people of America had much of a choice; had it been up to them, no one would abandon anything, and the country would be teeming with life and color once more.

Even the immigrants in the country felt the despair and weight of what was considered the worst collapse of an economy in history. Enjolras could hardly compare it to that of France’s, though he wasn’t quite sure of France’s economical state, given the current circumstances. He was sure France was better off than America was, though that wasn’t saying much when America had hit rock bottom. Many countries found themselves suffering with inflation, or loss of major amounts of money. This had been Enjolras’ primary reason for travelling to America in the first place; he hadn’t wanted to see France among the carnage of the destruction in the World War. Leaving his beloved home was not something he had been enthusiastic to do, but felt it necessary if he wanted to survive. His parents had not traveled with him; his father hadn’t survived the war, anyhow. His mother, overcome by grief, stayed behind with the house that, for all Enjolras knew, was blown to pieces by now, and was perhaps nothing but an ugly pile of wood and bricks.

His second, and last motivation for travelling to America had been the possible opportunities for work. He had been sadly misinformed of the condition the United States was in, and couldn’t quite recall where he had gotten the information from in the first place. 

It doesn’t matter much now, he thought bitterly, studying the floor of the train he had taken refuge on. Not many people rode trains this time of year; tickets were expensive and rides were extensive. Enjolras, in desperation and panic, had climbed aboard a still train in the dead of night hoping to find work in a busier part of America, near a city. Somewhere that was populated and busy would be preferred, if only because the feeling would represent that of home, as he had previously lived in the heart of Paris. A hole had made itself present in his being, jagged and full of a lust for a sense of belonging and usefulness. However, if he wished to fill the hole, perhaps jumping on a foreign train in a country he wasn’t quite accustomed to hadn’t been the wisest of decisions on his part.

The train constantly jolted, causing the cargo surrounding him to bump and slide around him. He was uncomfortable, long legs pulled close to his chest in defense of the objects in the dark he could barely see coming. When the train had come to a complete halt, a stack of crates toppled over and nearly buried him. He threw his hands over his head, protecting himself. It felt as though it had been days that he’d been travelling, though really it had only been about eighteen hours. Regardless of how short the trip had actually been, he was famished, parched, and sore. His muscles were aching, and he was in desperate need of stretching his legs out.

The boxcar doors suddenly slid open with impressive force. Enjolras could do no more than squint his eyes and look at the mammoth figure that greeted him. The monster of a man looked as though he could lift the entire boxcar and shake out the remains if he so pleased. Enjolras wasn’t sure if what he was seeing was real, or just his mind conjuring up hallucination due to fatigue. But when he reached in- with hands the size of baseball mitts- to pull and throw the cargo, Enjolras concluded that this was no figment of his imagination. Attempting to conceal himself better, he slouched and shifted an item or two, trying to put as much between him and the beast as he could. It was too late, the box he had been holding in a feeble attempt to barricade himself into the corner of the train had been snatched and discarded, as though it was only a piece of paper to him.

The next thing he grabbed was Enjolras’ ankle, and, as Enjolras had previously suspected, his grip was anything but soft. One small tug and he was pulled from beneath the objects that had previously concealed him.

The monster seemed to struggle with words, before he could say, in a booming voice, that Enjolras had not belonged in the car, and was to be extracted from it. Though, it hadn’t been quite as eloquent. The giant didn’t seem to know how to converse very well, which must have been why he had been checking the cargo.

“Come,” he grunted, and Enjolras had no choice but to comply, standing and brushing himself off, climbing from the train onto the ground, which felt as though it was cracking under his feet when he walked. The stretch would have felt nice, had he not realized how drowsy he was. The walk wasn’t very far, he assumed, and it would lead straight to arrest. Then his travel to America would have been completely useless, and had been completely in vain. 

Eventually, the walk lead them both to a smaller man, who was considerably smaller than Enjolras himself. He could be called womanly, he thought as he examined him, noting his curved hips and red lips.

“Who is this man, Bahorel,” he demanded, looking between the two. It had a name? Enjolras looked at Bahorel, brows furrowed, and glanced back to the other man.

“I’unno, boss, he don’t say nothin’,” the man called Bahorel replied, looking nearly ashamed in his   
manner of speaking.

“Alright. Then get rid him. What use is he to us? For all we know, he’s an immigrant, and he’s going to get us arrested, or worse, killed.”

“Aw, boss… Look at ‘im. He’s jus’ a tiny thing, ain’t he?”

Enjolras looked between the men, trying to find some rhyme and reason as to where the conversation was headed. He was slightly offended that Bahorel had called him tiny, but kept it to himself in favor of picking at his cuticles.

“Yes, he is, and I don’t care. I want him gone. And by gone, I mean dead. That’s an order, Bahorel, don’t you disobey me. You know what happens when you do.” The other man suddenly went from seemingly petty and harmless, to dark and dangerous in only a few seconds.

“He can work, boss! Look at his face, he can work,” Bahorel insisted, grabbing Enjolras’ chin as if to show the other man every angle of his face. “Montparnasse, he ain’t no harm.” The other man, Montparnasse, hummed with hesitation and vague interest, as if weighing the pros and cons of hiring Enjolras.

Enjolras cleared his throat and looked at Montparnasse. “If I may, I’m very capable of working,” he informed him, trying to hold back the French accent that tainted his speech. He was once proud to hear the accent so prominently in his tone, but that changed as he was referred to as an immigrant. “I know how to do a lot of things- paperwork, I can carry cargo to and from the trains, if you want. I--”

 

Montparnasse had laughed viciously, eyeing Enjolras. “You think this is an office job? Nine to five, working the telegraph for a few cents a day? Typing up drafts for the big man? Sweetheart, look around you!’ At first, it seemed that they stood in an abandoned field, but it soon became evident that it was much more than that. It was a lot, chains marked the out line of its property and a heavy sign with faded letters read ‘Coming Soon’. A glance back at the train told him exactly what was coming.. Painted in grand, swirling gold letters, the words formed a frame for a picture of a scene Enjolras had not seen since childhood. Cirque de l’inconnu.


End file.
